The Mist and the Lightning. Part 19

Chapter 1

They didn’t stay long in Riverside, and Kors was sincerely glad about this. He himself didn’t understand why he was so afraid of this place. It was somehow fatal for him. Here he attended the council of commanders before the attack on the Fort, and then he was an indisputable authority for his black warriors, he was one of them. Surrounded by his companions, he proudly sat in a place of honor at the head of the table, covered with a maroon velvet tablecloth, which Valentine had obtained from no one knew where that day. And he also sat at this table later, but the tablecloth on the table was crumpled and dirty. He sat alone in an empty house, his shoulders slumped and his posture of the chosen master forgotten – an outcast with a painted face, with a body covered with patterns of unclean ones, humiliated and turned into a slave.

Kors diligently drove these painful memories away from him. On that terrible night in this abandoned, decaying village, the Demon showed him his strength, but, in the end, Kors remained alive, and nothing seemed to have changed. Or so it seemed. But when, by the will of fate, he found himself in this cursed place, deeply hidden memories and emotions treacherously began to surface, spinning into a whirlpool of heavy thoughts and not giving rest. And Kors was well aware of the fact that he couldn’t calmly enter that room with a vile rat swarming in the corner.

The humans, the black warriors of Zagpeace and Tol, rode a few marches ahead as always, while Kors still commanded the unclean ones and rode with them. They were not particularly in a hurry, but they didn’t stop overnight either, resting no more than a couple of hours in a row. His captain, Parky, kept order in a long line of carts and numerous carts of various colors, loaded to the top with various goods. Periodically, he drove forward to Kors, and reported to his commander that everything was in order, or, on the contrary, said: “…one of the carts had a broken wheel, and they were a little behind, but they would fix it soon.”

“That’s because you didn’t properly distribute the load inside, and stuffed too much without thinking about the correct distribution of weight and pressure on the wheels,” Kors explained in an instructive manner, distracting himself from his gloomy thoughts with a conversation.

He looked at the bright black dots tattooed under the eyes of the unclean one, and involuntarily repeated to himself: “The last warning, the last warning… and how many warnings have I myself received during this time, so presumptuously casting them aside? They didn’t make tattoos under my eyes, but it looks like I got in trouble more than you, Ark.”

And Parky, it seemed, heard him, but didn’t say anything, and, having reported, returned back to the carts.

Next to Kors, but slightly behind him, rode Adrian. He was dressed in his warrior’s clothes, and his rather grown hair, with the help of some fixatives of the unclean ones, was beautifully set up in a high comb. Kors didn’t forbid him this, and from time to time turned to him, giving some simple instructions in the style of “give and bring”, using Adrian as his servant and slave. Adrian carried out everything.

“Adrian,” Kors told him, “I haven’t changed my mind, and I don’t take my words back. I still agree to let you go to the Unclean Limit when we return to the Black City. To release you to your wife and children. You are an unclean half-blood, and your father, as far as I understand, is a rich and noble true black. You have the blood of the chosen race, do you understand that?”

“Yes, sir,” Adrian replied indifferently, “but there is no turning back for me.”

That was his answer invariably, and his tattooed face remained as impenetrable as his thoughts.

And Kors, on the contrary, now even wanted to free Adrian. The uncleans made him a slave, punishing him for cowardice. The demon gave Adrian to Kors, knowing absolutely well that he was dooming the slave to torment. But now, Kors, to spite the Demon, did not want to torment Adrian any more.

Nik and Arel also often rode very close to Kors. He could see the Demon, and from this, he only felt worse.

Physically, it seemed, Kors more or less recovered and could spend many hours on the road, in the saddle, feeling neither pain nor weakness, but morally… Morally, he was simply crushed, and in the monotonous path between the endless desert hills, every now and then stumbling his eyes on such a bright spot of mop of white hair, Kors couldn’t help but think of Nik. He couldn’t help but remember:

“They are on their way from the Ore Town to the Crimson Rock. One of the haunts.

Kors combs Nik neatly, pushing his platinum white hair up from his forehead and temples. He carefully clips them with hairpins, planning to continue to braid his braids or make a tail, but suddenly he notices how cute Nik is with his hair pulled back a little and at the same time with fluffy thick strands sticking out a little further on the sides. Kors puts down the hairbrush and leaves Nik like that, admiring him and seeing that one naughty thin strand has already jumped out of his pinned up bangs and lies on the face of his beautiful boy. This unbearably touches Kors, he looks at the naughty hair sticking out on the sides of his face and slightly shifted back, and they really remind him of the fluffy long ears of a cute puppy. Kors laughs, and Nik purses his lips in displeasure and shakes his head in annoyance, not wanting Kors to laugh at him, and another thin strand of white spills out of the mass of his hair.”

Nik, standing aloof, spits quickly to the side, spitting out of his mouth as sharply and far as Lis fires bullets from his musket.

Kors literally freezes in shock:

“Stop it,” he hisses, “put on your mask immediately!”

Kors knows that in the mask, even if Nik moves the lower shield as far forward and upward as possible, he still won’t be able to spit so valiantly. Nik, realizing that Kors is dissatisfied with him, squints slightly in his direction and quickly puts on his mask. And later, in their camping tent, Kors rips it off his face and hits his son on the lips with his palm, straight from the shoulder, backhand:

“Don’t you ever do that! Don’t you dare spit like a beast!” Kors yells at him.

Nik shrinks and tries to shield his lips with his palms, but doesn’t resist and remains silent. He doesn’t look at Kors, doesn’t raise his eyes, although his face expresses obvious displeasure. And Nik never spit on the ground or to the side in front of his father again.

They stood by the picturesque lake for three days, and Kors no longer remembers for what fault he makes Nik climb under their camp bed. He tells him that as punishment, Nik will lie there for exactly an hour, and lowers down a heavy cover of skins. Nik obediently and quietly lies on the floor, but Kors himself becomes very bored without him, and he barely maintains the allotted time. Barely waiting for the hour to finally pass, he abruptly lifts the covers, revealing his sweet boy. Nik lies face down on the floor, his face buried in his folded hands. He slightly raises his head, and, squinting from the light, tries to look at his father, and he frantically pulls him out and pulls him towards him, while hastily unzipping his fly with his other hand, and presses on the back of his head, pressing his face to his crotch.

Why is he recalling this now? It’s all over and there’ll be nothing more. But thoughts of Nik stubbornly spin in his head, endlessly playing the same melody, a song about lost love. Just like a hurdy-gurdy! Nik was right about it!

The same. One and the same, and so on in a circle. Ding. Ding. Ding…

Ding. Ding. Ding.

“Their room in the Fort. Nik sits on the bed and Kors moves his finger up, down, left, right. This way he restores his son’s vision and trains his eyes. Nik tries to follow his hand. Kors slowly brings his finger to the tip of his nose.

“Look!” He orders. “Look with both eyes at my finger!”

And Nik obediently shifts his eyes to the bridge of his nose, into a bunch, and it’s so funny and amusing that Kors, unable to restrain himself, begins to laugh. He shakes his head, pressing his hands to his chest and bursting into laughter, and Nik sits in front of him, shrinking, and, as usual, out of frustration, he sticks out his already plump lower lip a little forward, with his expression, provoking a new fit of fun and laughter in Kors. Nik looks at him reproachfully and with some resentment that Kors is making fun of him so openly.

And Kors pleads with him through laughter:

“Nik, Nik, honey, don’t pout, everything’s fine! You did it great. It was just so funny!”

But Nik doesn’t support Kors’ fun and continues to pout and twist his mouth.

Well, smile, smile! Kors asks him, and Nick stretches his lips into an artificial smile that looks more like a grin. This is how a tamed predator grins, obeying the owner, but demonstrating that he doesn’t like it when he teases him. And Nik, like a beast, snarling a little, “smiles”, showing fangs, while still not daring to disobey or bite. It only gives Kors another flush, and a minute later the cure is forgotten and Nik is moaning under him.

The next morning, Kors returns to treatment and says:

“Now let’s train your eyes again.”

And Nik starts to indulge and moves his eyes to the tip of his nose, or one eye to the nose, and the other, on the contrary, away from the bridge of the nose, strongly to the side. Kors doesn’t understand how he can do it so cleverly and funny, they both laugh. And, despite the fact that Nik is making faces and openly fooling around, he still remains incredibly charming and sweet, and Kors is unable to scold him for the disrupted lesson, and they love each other again.

Ding. Ding. Ding.

Everything always happened passionately, violently, brightly. On the first run, Kors came very quickly, and only on the second and third time he could fuck Nik properly, and then he began to speed up again. As soon as he rested and took a break for a couple of hours, everything started all over again, and the first orgasm overwhelmed him literally instantly. Kors was constantly overused his cock till it bled, unable to stop in time, because he wanted Nik every minute. Without thinking about the consequences, he healed abrasions with strong remedies. Under drugs, it was not difficult, the pain from instant healing was almost not felt. Everything was great! Only too many strong stimulants, too many and often used, and now his potency said to him: “Goodbye.”

Ding. Ding. Ding.

Why does he continue? Not even specific situations are spinning in his head, but simply different moments associated with his boy: Nik turns his whole body towards him, instead of just turning his head, and casts a quick glance from under his brows, from the bottom up. Involuntary trembling of the hand. The clumsy gesture with which Nik tries to straighten his hair and keep his bangs out of his eyes, knowing that Kors gets annoyed when his hair obscures his face. The way his shoulders and perpetually disheveled top of his head sink down when Kors begins to scold him, calling him a drunkard and a brainless fool. At such moments, Nik’s eyes began to shine with tears, and each time it happens faster and faster. In the end, as soon as Kors began to read his lectures, Nik’s eyes were already wet. And for Kors, it was an unforgettably pleasant memory.

Ding. Ding. Ding.

Very soon, Kors realized for himself what hurtful words had the strongest effect on Nik. Nik didn’t react strongly enough, but rather indifferently, to accusations that he was a criminal, that he beat someone, extorted money and created chaos in the Black City. The honor of the warrior and the fact that he pissed it off worried him very little. But he reacted to the “complete drug addict”, although he reacted stronger to “drunkard”. He remained impenetrable to accusations that he had ruined his body and arms with tattoos, but cringed when Kors accused him of foolishly ruining his appearance, and now he had a scar on his face. Nik didn’t react to the fact that he was illiterate, but if Kors called him a fool and stupid, he got upset. And Kors always put pressure on these pain points. A drunkard and a fool – these words upset Nik more than others. He nervously raised his hands, bringing them together and clenching them into fists, and began to beat himself on the top of his head.

“Stop immediately!” Kors told him sternly. “From the fact that you now knock yourself on your bad head, your mind will not increase, but only the last one will be knocked out!”

And Nik was sitting in front of him, sniffing and stubbornly rubbing his eyes. But Kors considered it the best when, nevertheless, one or two tears fell from glass eyes. Then, filled with incredibly pleasant emotions himself, like Nik’s eyes with tears, Kors impetuously hugged his son and explained that he was scolding him for his own good, in order to help him become better. And Nik should understand this, not be offended by his father and be grateful to him. And Nik thanked and asked for forgiveness.

Ding. Ding. Ding.

Even now, after everything that had happened between them, those memories still made Kors feel good in his stomach.

Nik was driving nearby and seems to have noticed Kors’ looks or heard his thoughts about him. Kors understood this, because the Demon slightly turned his masked face towards him, and then, turning away, let go of the reins, and, raising both hands, put the cloak hood over his head, covering his hair. He pulled his hood up, shading his already covered face. Passing his black-gloved hand a few more times over his mask, he carefully tucked a few unruly white strands under his hood. Kors saw how, on his hand, wrapped in an expensive thin leather glove, a golden ring with a dark green stone was put right over the glove. Kors’ gift. And Nik wears it. The stone shines brightly and shimmers. True blacks wore precious rings on their fingers, but never wore them over a glove, it was considered a vulgar sign of bad taste, and before Kors would never allow Nik to do this, but what can he say now? He no longer has the right to point and make remarks, and Nik, with his savage notions of beauty, of course, put a ring on top of his glove for everyone to see and so that he could show off the jewel.

Nick spurred on the Unclean Power, driving a little ahead and away from Kors.

Kors thought that the Demon’s real face was as black as his mask, and now he understood why the Demon liked to wear it so much. As strange as it may sound, but in the mask he looked more like himself. And the Demon used the cute features of Kors’ son only for seduction and deception.

Ding. Ding. Ding.

Kors became very sad. How good it was to be ignorant of the lies that reigned around him, suffocate with love and delight, squeezing “his boy” to his chest, the boy who he considered Nik to be, in a slightly rough and passionate embrace. To look into those transparent eyes, often made up, lined with black and burning on a pale face, to hear his groans, to see and feel how Nik cuddles and clings to him. How could Kors assume that they themselves, and not at all their ill-wishers, would destroy such an ideal relationship? And now what? Now what?!

There is no longer his little white boy, his beautiful doll, so sweet, affectionate and obedient, and bright eyes in long eyelashes will no longer look up at him from the bottom up, waiting for him to order. And seductive lips will not pout cutely from frustration because of offensive words. And now, from the bitterness of unfulfilled hopes, Kors himself had treacherously tears in his eyes. All immersed in his grief, he didn’t immediately notice Zaf, but he rode up to him, and Kors, recollecting himself, quickly wiped his wet eyes with his palm. “Damn, what does he want?”

“Vitor,” Zaf looked at Kors very seriously.

“No, this doesn’t look like flirting or some kind of tackle at all,” Kors thought quickly and said politely:

“Good evening, Zaf!”

“You know,” continued Zaf, without answering to the greeting, he seemed agitated, “you can always call me mentally. If you want. Don’t endure or bring it to a critical situation, ashamed to ask for help. Vitor, just call me and I’ll come and try to do my best.”

“Zaf, what are you talking about?” The way Zaf carefully continued to look into his face, and these words about some kind of “critical situation” that could happen, made Kors feel as if a spring tightened in his stomach, and these were very unpleasant sensations.

“There is no point in playing a hero,” Zaf continued, “it won’t help you in any way. It you will feel bad, call me. I have known the White Lord for a very long time, but I know only one thing about him for sure: you can expect anything from him. So call me, I myself offered help, this is not your weakness.”

Kors froze in the saddle. He looked at Zaf’s flattened broad nose. Because of the plugs, it didn’t have a nose tip as such, there was just a flattened flat cake with a small vertical notch in the middle. Poor Zaf, he was once handsome, long ago, before they performed this disfiguring procedure on him – it seems that his father did it. So he told Kors. From Shagezh’s childhood memories, Kors remembered Zaf as young, with still very small stones in his nostrils, his nose was not so terribly flattened. Everything happened gradually, and now Zaf’s face was irrevocably damaged. That was a sign of belonging to a clan, family. The younger belongs to the older. Could Kors ever do something similar to his son, disfigure him like that? No, he was not able even to cut off a lock of Nik’s hair!

Zaf is also a Demon, what is his animal essence? Who is he? The human bodies of Nik and Arel are not like their bestial essences. Nik doesn’t resemble a reptile at all, well, maybe only with movements sometimes: either completely motionless, frozen, or sharp and fast. How is Arel similar to a bat? Is it his dark hair color? No, all this is somehow unconvincing. If Kors himself has goat horns on his head, then there is absolutely no evidence for this in his physical body. Who are you, Zaf? He can be anything.

“Thanks, but I don’t need help,” Kors said, “I think everything will be all right.”

Zaf smiled mirthlessly, shaking his head slightly.

“Then just come to visit us when we are at a halt. Let’s sit, have a drink, play cards.”

“Thank you for the offer, Zaf,” said Kors. He thought: “That’s all I wanted, well, no, cash me out, I don’t need your hospitality.”

And Zaf, without saying anything else, turned his horse around, driving away from Kors.

Kors tried his best to see his face. “Shit! Something large, squat, powerful, like Zaf himself. Covered with black wool… No, it’s not wool, but it looks very much like thick, dark brown, almost black, fur. Not an animal. Zaf is not a beast. He is closer to Nik. An insect. Thick hairy paws, consisting of several joints. located around the body. A lot of them.”

Moving away from Kors, Zaf, as if sensing his gaze, turned around, and Kors saw his round dark eyes flash. Two huge round eyes. “No, damn, it’s the round plugs in his nose that shimmer dark green, not his eyes at all!”

Kors shook his head, warding off the obsession. What did Zaf mean? He was very serious and even somewhat nervous. He was afraid for Kors. Gods! Thoughts rushed about in Kors’ head like thunder lightning: “The demon said: “I will develop and train you.” What does it mean? Train him like Arel? But what’s the point of making Kors mute? Fasten his tongue like the prince’s one? Kors hears everything and can carry on any conversation mentally. For Arel, probably, this torture was beneficial, forcing him to develop an internal dialogue. Arel was dumb and didn’t hear anything except the phrase: “I allow you to come.” The demon suffered with him and was forced to make him dumb. The lack of physical ability to pronounce words aloud involuntarily stimulated the prince to look for other ways of communication. Compensating for his dumbness, he developed.

But Kors doesn’t need it. He sees people’s lives, to say nothing of standard chatter. There is no point in developing it. What else? To be a slave like a prince? Sitting naked at the feet of his owner while he smokes and plays cards – is this development? Nik said, “I don’t like beating you,” and he usually expresses himself clearly. However, at the limit, he beat him up without the least effort. And what? Didn’t he like it? Doesn’t he want it? Doesn’t he love it? Well, but Prince Arel still loves it! I’m done! They will beat me like I beat them, “mirror”, as Nik says. What to do? What should I do? Call Zaf for help? After all, he hinted at it. How humiliating. Zaf said, “Don't be a hero.”

Kors felt scared.

Chapter 2

To top it all off, as if responding to Kors’ gloomy mood, the weather turned bad and it began to rain. At first small and barely drizzling, very quickly it turned into a deafening downpour, and the unclean ones decided to finally stop for a full-fledged halt. They began to put up tents for the night, but while this was happening, Kors managed to get wet through. He froze and no longer understood why he was shaking, from the cold or from fear. Wrapping himself as tightly as possible in a long cloak, he stood near his horse and waited impatiently for the unclean ones under Parky’s command to set up a tent. Kors had already forgotten the last time his tent was set up. During all the campaigns, he always lived with “his boys”, but this time he didn’t know what to do. Nik and Arel had gone far ahead and were lost in the rain and bustle of preparing for a halt. Where did he have to go? After all, he also had his own place to sleep. As always while waiting, Kors lit a cigarette nervously. Trying not to get his cigarette wet, he bowed his head hard, pulling his hood up as far as he could. And at that moment, in his mind, the order sounded very clearly: “Come here!” Kors flinched in surprise and immediately threw the half-smoked cigarette aside. Where was he supposed to go? He looked around nervously. Where in this confusion did he have to look for Nik? Kors nevertheless decided to go a little forward, in the direction where they had left earlier. He couldn’t ignore the order, he simply was not able to do it, to disobey. Even physically. His legs themselves carried him to no one knows where in the depths of the camp being set up. He barely had time to grab his horse by the bridle, leading him along. Not having made even a couple of dozen steps, Kors saw a dark figure, clearly heading towards him. Despite the fact that the walker was wrapped in a cloak, and his face was hidden by a low-pulled hood, Kors didn’t doubt who was in front of him. Such a proud posture of a born master could only belong to the prince. Arel approached. In the evening twilight and the veil of rain, his gray face looked absolutely inhuman. It was a dead mask. Beautiful and equally repulsive in its icy indifference.

“Follow me, you’re going to spend the night with us,” Arel told him without any intonation.

“But…” Kors glanced back at his nearly pitched tent in confusion, “but after what happened? Why?”

Arel shrugged his shoulders lazily.

“It doesn’t concern me, so said Nik,” and, turning away, he headed in the direction from which he came.

Kors waved his hand to Parky.

“As you were!”

Parky froze, poured with rain, then, it seemed, he understood the order and shouted to his soldiers:

“Stop it! Disassemble it back!”

And Kors hurried after Arel. “So, Nik sent the prince for me. Prince Arel running errands, like Valentine, it’s funny. Nik didn’t mentally indicate to me where to go, he preferred to send Arel after me. Why? However, what’s the difference.”

Kors obediently walked behind, thinking that Arel was no longer human. “Is this awaiting me too? The demon said: ‘I will develop and teach you.’ Develop and teach me to turn into this? In a creature without feelings and emotions, indifferent to all living things?”

They approached the already pitched tent. Arel let Kors go ahead and followed him himself. Kors heard the prince mentally briefly report: “I brought him.”

Nik was sitting at the table. He took off his cloak, but his face was still masked. Kors saw that Nik’s hair was tangled and uncombed, he didn’t do it without his father, and it was killing Kors, but he couldn’t tell him anymore.

“Take off your cloak,” Nik said, obviously addressing Kors, “water flows from you in a stream.”

Kors immediately took off his cloak and tried to carefully hang it at the entrance so as not to wet everything around.

“On your knees,” Nik ordered.

“Gods, what was I hoping for?!” flashed through Kors’ head. He silently knelt down. He ALREADY wanted to call Zaf.

Nik came over and handed Kors a towel.

“Wipe your face, it’s wet from the rain.”

Kors glanced at him quickly, trying to determine the mood, but what was the point? The mask reliably hid facial expressions, and black glass hid the expression of the eyes. Kors looked down, took the offered towel and dried himself with it.

“Raise your head,” Nik ordered again, “raise, throw back your face and close your eyes.”

Kors obeyed, suddenly feeling something sticky touch his eyes, pressed against his eyelids and skin. It was plaster!

“Aaah!”

“Don’t yell! It’s just plaster.”

“But why?” Kors shouted, clutching at his plastered eyes.

"I’m going to take off my mask,” Nik explained calmly, “you won’t see my human face again.”

“What?!”

“Now remember my black scaly face. Both me and Arel are no longer people for you.”

“A snake and a bat?” Kors chuckled, but his grin was unconvincing. Inside, he was frightened and disoriented by being blinded.

“Not a snake and not a bat, but okay, so be it,” Nik agreed, “you are approximately right.”

“But I’m the same as you!” Kors exclaimed desperately. “You said I had horns.”

“Yes.”

“So, it turns out, I’m a goat?!”

“A goat, a snake, and a bat,” Nik summed up, and Kors heard him and Arel laugh softly, “take off your wet clothes,” Nik ordered, and his voice became serious again, “it needs to be hung out to dry.”

“How can I hang my clothes to dry if I can’t see anything!” Kors was outraged.

“Ver will take care of your clothes.”

“Well, of course! He doesn’t understand anything! He will hang it too close to the fire. He will ruin expensive leather. My clothes require special care!”

Kors received a blow to the head, unexpected and so strong that he flew against the wall and fell on his side. He didn’t even understand who hit him, Nik or Arel, but it was very painful. There was ringing in his ears, and he just by some miracle didn’t lose consciousness.

“Please, don’t do it!” He shouted humiliated. Kors was afraid of them and knew that they felt his fear. “I’m worse than Adrian, I’m just as much of a coward!”

“Take off your wet clothes, Ver will take care of them,” Nick repeated without much intonation.

Kors wanted to think that Prince Arel had hit him after all, but he couldn’t know for sure, and their thoughts were hidden from him. He began to undress, afraid of getting another blow. Maybe you should have taken your clothes off faster?

Having completely undressed, he remained on his knees. They didn’t hurry him, didn’t hit him, and didn’t tell him anything. Kors heard Verniy approach him. He recognized him by his breath, by the way Ver sniffed like a dog, and now by the disgusting smell of a wet dog. Kors was cold, his skin was covered with goosebumps, he was shivering slightly, the air in the tent had not yet warmed up at all. “Gods, if only they didn’t leave me to sleep like this at the entrance, or at least give me some kind of skin, or rather a blanket.” He felt a chain being fastened to his golden collar. Nik did it, Kors was not mistaken, because Nik told him:

“Get on all fours and crawl after me,” and he pulled on the chain.

Kors slowly moved forward, afraid to hit the trestle bed or the table. Now he understood Nik very well with his poor eyesight and involuntarily thought: “Gods, how did he endure all this throughout his life?”

Stretching out his hand a little, Kors helplessly explored the space in front of him and stumbled upon a wooden leg.

“Lie down on the bed,” Nik said, “cover yourself, get warm, I don’t wish you harm.” There will be dinner soon.

“Thank you,” Kors barely whispered. Feeling the surface of the trestle bed with his hand, he got up from his knees and carefully lay down on it, wrapping himself in a blanket, feeling how big and soft it was. “It’s their duvet covered in gold satin and brocade! They slept under him in the palace of Ore Town. So, Nik ordered to pull an expensive thing out of the wagon, like this, right on the march, in the middle of the road? He ordered to cover a camp bed with a luxurious blanket? However, what was the difference now? The main thing was that it was warm. Kors covered even his head and lay there, trying to stop trembling and not think about anything, not analyze anything. Someday Nik will change his anger for mercy, Kors believed in it. In the end, Kors himself is to blame. He dimly heard their movements around the tent, but they said nothing.

“Vitor. Get up! Hold it, put it on.”

Nik pushed him in the chest with something soft, Kors realized that it was his white cambric shirt with layered lace on the collar and cuffs and a velvet camisole with gold embroidery on the lapels, his suede pants. All these things didn’t fit together, and moreover, wearing them now, in a camping tent, was absurd, but Kors didn’t object. Without saying a word, he put on what he was offered. He imagined how stupid he looked with plastered eyes, disheveled wet ponytail, chain hanging down from the collar, and at the same time in expensive lace. Nik gave him his most beautiful clothes, well, in Nik’s opinion, of course, but it was respectful, maybe… or vice versa, it was a mockery, Kors didn’t understand.

“Let’s go to the table,” Nik said and pulled the chain.

“Should I crawl on all fours again?” Kors said.

“No, just follow me carefully.”

On a chain, like a dog, making very small steps, Kors obediently followed Nik. Nik led him slowly, not hurrying, only guiding him with the tension of the chain.

Finally, touching the edge of the table with his slightly outstretched hand, Kors asked:

“Can I sit down?”

“Yes, of course,” Nik replied, “daddy, I’m not punishing you, understand it.”

And Kors heard him pull a chair close to him.

Kors sat down neatly, and Nik placed his hand on the wooden table top. Kors immediately stumbled upon the fork, felt the edge of the dinner bowl. By the sharp specific smell, he realized that there was lamb meat in the bowl. He had no appetite, and not even because the meat stank. During his time with the unclean ones, Kors has generally become accustomed to their dirty food. Pulling his fingers away sharply from the food, Kors continued to run his hand across the table more confidently, and, as he had hoped, found a goblet of wine on the side of the bowl.

It was better that way. He immediately took it, and, forgetting to ask Nik’s permission, took several large sips, almost draining it to the bottom.

“You need to eat,” Nik said.

“I can’t… a piece won’t go down my throat,” Kors justified himself, and he didn’t lie.

“No, that’s not good,” Nik disagreed, “you need to eat, daddy, I’ll feed you myself.”

“Nik…”

“From my hand, from my fingers, will you take food?”

“Nik…”

Kors felt a hot piece of meat touch his lips. Involuntarily, he tried to push it away from him. Trying to remove Nik’s hand from his face, he accidentally touched his wrist just below the bracelet. Now that all of Kors’ senses were sharpened to the limit, he very clearly felt the thin dent of the scar under his fingers. It was rope trace. Kors ruined his son’s wrists, constantly tying his hands tightly for the purpose of treatment and education, and, being carried away in the process, tightened it so that the rope literally dug into the skin. Tattoos, as always, helped to hide the abrasions, and Kors didn’t think about the consequences. He instantly remembered how Nik, in those moments when his hands were free, tried to rub his stiff fingers, grimacing from the pain of rubbing his wrists, on which deep grooves from the cord remained. And in the Ore Town, Kors tied his hands behind his back with a thin iron wire. What has he done! Now the same marks on his hands were waiting for him, Kors no longer doubted it. And yet, without knowing why, he was sure that after dinner Arel would fuck him, or he would suck him off. Nik was cunning, daddy Kors was punished. But for how long?

“Eat!” Nik hurried, pressing the piece of meat to his lips again.

And Kors doomedly parted his lips. The piece of lamb was small but very hot, burning the palate and tongue. Opening his mouth, Kors took a deep breath, trying to cool his food:

“Hot!”

“Forgive me, hold it, drink it,” Nik lightly pushed him with a goblet in the chest. Kors seized the goblet and drank the contents frantically.

“Another bite,” Nik touched his lips again, and Kors dutifully took the meat from his fingers.

On the fourth or fifth piece of lamb he pleaded:

“Nik, please! I can’t take it anymore! It makes me sick, I feel nausea.”

“Okay, I won’t do it anymore,” Nik said to Kors’ delight, “I have poured you more wine.”

Kors drank it.

“Daddy, would you like an injection?”

“N-no-no, thank you, please don’t! I'm fine.”

“Okay. Then go back to bed. And try to sleep.”

Kors groped his way back to the trestle bed, took off his camisole and shirt.

So far, they didn’t bother him. He warmed up under the covers, and the wine he drank made itself felt, giving some peace of mind.

Suddenly, Kors heard Nik make a strange sound. He seemed to sob, groaning softly, as if in pain, and his quiet moan turned into an equally quiet hissing.

“Ver!” He called loudly, and, apparently, having remembered himself, he added already in his mind, “Bring me this damn plaster and cotton wool,” and then again cursed out loud in unclean language.

“Nik! What happened to you?!” Kors shouted excitedly. Jumping up abruptly, he sat down on the couch.

“What’s the difference to you?” Nik answered coldly. “After all, I’m a piece of shit in a dirty candy wrapper.”

Kors froze ashamed:

“Why do you need cotton wool and plaster? Doctor Cassiel warned that when the poison finally begins to leave your scar, inflammation may begin. In recent days, the skin around was very reddened, did the inflammation intensify from shaking on the road? Yes? Just don’t put the steel brackets in again, I beg you!”

“That’s not your business! I will do what I want!”

“Nik, please! You are offended and angry with me, I understand, but be reasonable.”

“Don’t call me Nik again! For you, I’m Nikto! And I’m not offended and not angry with you, daddy master!”

Kors was well aware that Nik was mocking him, calling him daddy, but he didn’t want to give up so easily:

“No, no. Nik, please! I never really got mad at you. Were you listening to my thoughts on the road? My memories of you?”

“It was hard not to hear you jerk off incessantly to my human appearance in your head.”

“No! I didn’t jerk off… you have misunderstood…” Kors heard Verniy run into the tent. Nik began to mentally communicate with him and was distracted from the conversation with Kors. It pissed him off. “Nik, I was wrong, I admit it…”

“Fuck off and shut up now,” Nik hissed softly again. Kors suggested that he applied cotton soaked in a healing agent to an inflamed scar.

“Son, it’s my fault, I thoughtlessly started treatment and irritated your old wound. Let me help you,” pleaded Kors, he was madly worried that the Demon would completely disfigure the face of his son.

“No!”

And Kors couldn’t resist:

“You're ruining everything now! You won’t be able to apply the medicine properly! You don’t know how to do it! Stubborn idiot!”

“Ah, look, you washed me again and didn’t dry me! But I’m not going to sit and cry anymore after you yelled at me! Mister daddy, shut up, I said, otherwise now I’ll put a plaster on your mouth, and not just on your eyes! And if you want, I’ll fasten it with a steel bracket so that you will completely shut up!”

Kors froze and fell silent. He was very worried that Nik would spoil all the treatment without supervision now.

Nik walked over to him.

“Don’t talk to me. I forbid you to talk, you understand? Everything you wanted, you already told me in the Fort.”

Kors remained silent, not knowing what to do, whether he could answer or not. But he involuntarily mentally said: “Son, what’s wrong with your face?”

Despite the prohibition, Kors didn’t dare to call him Nikto.

“What’s wrong with my face? Nothing. It’s covered in black scales, you know,” Nik answered aloud. “Don’t address me mentally! And now I will touch you with my nasty paws, and you will wet your pants from fear, right, daddy?”

Kors grabbed his head.

“Forgive me, forgive me. I will try to accept your essence and this image of you, in our world you are in merger with my son, and…”

He “heard” how Nik abruptly closed his thoughts from him, as if loudly slamming the door, and moved away from him:

“Sleep!”

Chapter 3

Skid Row – Wasted Time

Kors is locked up again in some empty and dark cell with no windows. Is this a dream? Or is he “catching” Nik’s memories again? Kors has already understood that as soon as dark holes, low ceilings, cells, basements, unpleasant sensations of tightness in a closed space and darkness appeared in his visions, these were the memories of his son.

Darkness and limited space. Kors is no longer afraid, he doesn’t experience panic attacks and claustrophobia any more. He separates from Nik’s consciousness, in which there is emptiness and no thoughts and emotions, as if he is dead. Kors separates because he wants to see him from the side. There is no light source here, but Kors “sees” anyway. Nik is so small! Shit! Kors, as always, falls into Nik’s childhood memories.

He is too small, he is probably not yet five years old. Maybe a little more, but even for five years he looks small and thin, and the expression on his face is so serious and adult, not at all childish. Cheekbones are clearly distinguished on a thin face, there is no roundness and plump cheeks that are often inherent in babies. Pale face with harmonious features. Nik is very handsome, despite the fact that his face is grimy, as if smeared with earth, and his lower lip has already been ruined, rings stick out of it. His lips are black, also in soil. Did he eat soil? Nik’s hair is not cut or combed, it’s tangled and dirty, however, as always. His crown is also dirty with soil. He is badly dressed. He is wearing a short jacket and torn pants. This is frank rags, so old that it seems decayed. Nik is sitting on the bare dirt floor in this crypt-like closet where there is nothing else but him. He sits alone, dirty, covered in soil, thin, lonely. Kors involuntarily remembered Shagezh’s childhood memories. Zaf also always kept him in a closet. What kind of wild methods of upbringing do you unclean ones have?

Or do you only treat the “wrong” children this way? Like Shag and Nik? Nik’s hands are tied wrist to wrist. His hands are brought together, palm to palm, he somehow strangely presses them to his chest, and then the rope goes to the ring in the wall. Why did the witch tie a small child in a dark room alone? Why did she tie his hands together? “She didn’t treat you that well, Nik!” – Kors thinks bitterly. But his son never said a bad word about her, and always called her “my foster mother”, or simply mother. He didn’t say “witch”, didn’t call her by name, he said – my mother. And Kors sees now that Mara clearly didn’t deserve this title.

Nik shudders a little, as if he is listening carefully to something, but total silence reigns around. Shaking his head slightly, he removes his hands from his chest and suddenly begins to scrape the dirt floor. The floor is hard, but Nik must have had enough time, because the hole he scratched in the floor is quite deep. He slowly and somehow mechanically stupidly scratches the ground with his nails. There is neither a mug of water nor a bowl of food nearby. Maybe the poor boy really its soil. Nik scratches, scrapes the ground, and, as if angry, in some desperation raises his hands tied at the wrists, clenches his fists and nervously taps them on the top of his head. How familiar is this movement to Kors! Son, why are you digging the soil? Are you trying to dig a tunnel? To dig your way to freedom? Kors is overwhelmed with emotions of love for Nik and resentment for the witch. How could she treat his son like that! Animals are better treated, and he was a child! Kors’s heart is filled with such pain that he can no longer look at this simple and at the same time unbearable picture.

“Gods, son! Son!” he screams in some kind of frenzy and sees that Nik is shuddering, raising his pale face, his empty eyes staring into nowhere. His lips move barely perceptibly, not a sound comes out of them, but in Kors’ head it clearly flashes: “Father?” It's like Nik is putting it right into his brain, without using his voice or language. Only emotions. Again and again, with such surprise, he seems to ask: “Father? Father?!"

Kors freezes in surprise, emotions overwhelm him, and he begins to “fall out” of the past. The picture gets blurred, but he still manages to hear a sharp cry: “Dad, don’t leave me! Don’t leave me!"

And Kors falls out of his strange state. He wakes up, realizing that he is lying on a camp bed in a tent, but in his head, full of despair, it still continues to sound:

“Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me! Don’t leave…”

No, it couldn’t happen! It just couldn’t happen! Nik couldn’t feel him there at that moment and hear him, because Kors was just seeing through t the past. And the witch couldn’t treat his son so badly, she needed the child. She herself bought him for the Demon to share his body. So it’s not even the past, but a bad dream. It’s just a nightmare. Just a bad dream! Bad. Dream. Forget it!

What time is it now? His eyes were still tightly covered with plaster. But usually Kors always woke up early, only recently in the Fort his unchanging schedule has gone astray. It probably isn’t even nine in the morning yet, thought Kors. He heard the pounding of rain on the roof. So it hasn’t stopped raining yet, it’s been raining all night? Behind him lay Arel. Kors had no doubt that it was him. The prince was lying very close, clinging tightly and, as usual, placing his relaxed and therefore heavy arm on Kors. He pressed his face against the back of Kors’ head, and he felt his warm, measured breath on his hair. Kors didn’t remember how he fell asleep, didn’t remember when Arel lay down next to him. Most likely, Nik, using his power, put Kors to sleep, just knocked him out, and Kors was offended by this. “Why, like this, without asking, against will, put a person to sleep? Without asking even my desire? He treats me like a thing!” Discontent and irritation were rising in him more and more, and his mood was shitty since the very morning. He was unbearably infuriated by the plaster on his eyes, the sticky layer was pulling his skin, and in general, waking up in the morning, he just wanted to open his eyes, rub them, but Kors couldn’t do this. The way Nik had treated him yesterday was terribly upsetting now, too. Not only did he make him humbly kneel at the threshold, shivering from the cold, but he also blinded him. “I don’t want you to see my face! You won’t see my human face again!” What a crazy idea? Another stupidity in which there is no point, except for humiliation. Senseless humiliation. However, this is absolutely in their style – to humiliate for no reason and cruelly, always the same thing, nothing new. Lis has to be painted like a jester, I have to be blinded. And Nik does this not for the first time, Kors remembered how for several days he was forced to wear uncomfortable shameful glasses in which nothing was visible, and now even worse, Nik just plastered his eyes over. Silly games of an eccentric, cruel boy. “I don’t punish you, daddy.” Hypocritical rubbish, what else are you doing! You allowed me to be beaten! Kors preferred to believe that it was not Nik himself who hit him, but the prince. And then he simply ordered “sleep” and knocked him out.

Kors felt heat from Arel lying next to him. Their camp bed was not wide at all, it was uncomfortable to sleep on it together even in an embrace, and the heavy brocade blanket with which they were covered with their heads now also was annoying Kors. Under it, together with Arel, it was stuffy and hot. Stuffy, hot and cramped. Kors rather rudely threw off the prince’s arm and sat down. Getting out from under the warmth of the blanket and Arel, he immediately felt the damp coolness of moist air. Down below, a draft blew across the wooden flooring, chilling his bare feet uncomfortably. There was a strong smell of tobacco, yesterday’s lamb, sweat from clothes and unwashed bodies, but the smell of cigarette smoke still reigned over all the rest.

“Nik…” Kors called, but immediately stopped short. “Nikto! Son!” He added cautiously. “Can I address you? I really have to!”

“Hmmm…” Apparently, Nik was lying very close, from the side of Prince Arel, and, it seemed, right on the floor:

“What do you want? Oh-h…”

“What time is it now?” Kors asked.

“What?”

“ Do you know what time it is?”

“I have no idea, what?” Nik asked with a yawn.

“Are you asking me?! How would I know if I can’t see anything?” Kors was outraged. Yes, talking to Nik in the morning was a pointless exercise, however, as at almost any other time.

Nik yawned again and didn’t answer.

“Can I peel off the plaster?” Kors asked after a while, realizing that Nik had no intention of continuing the conversation at all.

“Eh? No.”

Kors barely suppressed the uncontrollable wave of anger that swept over him. His fingers clenched nervously into fists.

“No,” repeated Nick, “I’ll do it myself.”

“Then do it…” and Kors, thinking again for a moment, added: “Please.”

“A little bit later. Get away from me, let me sleep! What keeps you up this early?”

“I’m begging you, stop scoffing! Peel it off.”

“I’m not kidding, I want to sleep, do you need it right now?”

“But I can’t see anything!”

“Why do you need to see something now? Sleep, that’s all!”

“I need to step aside to relieve myself!”

“Take a bottle there, Arel left some yesterday…”

“Are you kidding?”

But Nik didn’t answer him anymore.

Continuing to writhe inside with rage, Kors rummaged around near their trestle bed and immediately stumbled upon several empty wine bottles lying there. “Just wonderful!” But what to do, need makes the old wife trot. Standing up and holding a bottle in one hand, with the other hand he pulled his cock out of his pants, and, pressing his head strongly against the neck, he nevertheless managed to relieve himself. As soon as he put the filled bottle aside, he felt Arel’s hands on his belt. He pulled his thin and soft suede pants even lower from his hips and at the same time persistently pulled Kors back onto the trestle bed, forcing him to sit down. Arel didn’t turn him around, releasing his waist, and pressed on his shoulders. Kors lay on his side with his back to the prince. They huddled together like folded spoons in a drawer. Kors felt a hot and hard cock resting against his sacrum. “Well, of course, come on, Arel! Calm your morning boner against me.”

Arel confidently continued to pull off his pants. Kors wasn’t helping him. The prince completely pulled off only one trouser leg from one of his legs. Satisfied with this, he slightly lifted his now bare leg up. Kors felt his fingers, they were wet, Arel drooled on them, they felt and parted his sphincter, then a few pushes followed. Kors just lay there, not fucking back, but he was pleased, he felt somehow comfortable, at home. Arel covered them both with a blanket over their heads and slowly pushed into Kors, hugging him tightly and breathing in his ear. In this warm cocoon of a blanket, they softly fumbled, closely clinging to each other, as in a mink, and Arel, slightly hanging over him, tickled his cheek with his hair. The prince was so strong, firm, young. Kors squeezed his cock with his hand: “A-ah…” Arel increased the pace of his thrusts, and, to Kors’ pleasure, he moaned absolutely sincerely, throwing back the blanket that covered them, tearing their sticky bodies out of the warm, but cramped and airless space into the damp and cold world filled with humid air. Kors pushed back and met him, answering, receiving the thrusts already not so inertly. Arel appreciated this, he accelerated, and his breathing became deeper. They either strayed from the pace set by Arel, starting to move at random, then they again felt for synchronism, lost it and caught it again…

“Should I leave for you?” Without stopping, Arel asked hoarsely, clearly addressing Nik. Kors understood what he meant – he asked him whether he could come inside Kors or pull out in advance, leaving him not so wet for Nik.

“I’m not your cigarette!” Kors shouted indignantly, instantly losing his mood and hearing how the prince sharply pulled out of him, sprinkled next to him, a little on his thigh and probably on a brocade blanket. He “left”, that’s how it was called.

Nik approached them. Hearing the creaking of the floorboards, Kors jerked himself up on the bed and stubbornly repeated:

“I’m not a cigarette to leave me to each other! I. Am. Not. A. Cigarette!”

“Yes?” Nik asked, as if a little surprised, and pulled Kors by the chain dangling from his collar. “And it didn’t bother you before. Even if we… mmm… smoked you alone for two or at the same time.”

“You loved me then, but now you humiliate me!”

“It seems to you,” said Nik, and Kors felt him pulling him by the chain harder, forcing him to lean forward a little, touching his face and ripping off the plaster with a sharp jerk.

“Oh!” Kors covered his eyes with his palms. “You could be more careful! Not only you have eyelashes!”

He looked up, and when he saw Nik, he literally froze in shock. Nik was not wearing a mask, but his face was tightly bandaged with wide strips of black cloth. He wrapped his head in the same way as Kors once wrapped it, with the only difference that Nik left a narrow gap for himself at eye level, and he also cut the fabric at mouth level, just as Kors did. He looked with horror at the shiny ring sticking out from under the strips of fabric under his nose, at the wrapped chin and the top of his head, on which white hair stood up a little between the bandages. Nik wrapped himself around both the way Kors wrapped him and the way Doctor Cassiel had done in Prince Arel’s estate. The side of Nik’s neck was plastered over.

Kors swallowed hard, clutching his throat, unable to utter a word. Nik was almost no different from Valentine now. He looked frankly bad and pathetic. Nik unfastened the chain from Kors’ collar and walked away, returning to his couch of skins, laid right on the floor. He obviously didn’t intend to fuck.

Kors, still silently, looked at him. He saw how hard Nik was making his steps, how he barely hobbled to the skins and sank heavily on them. Realizing that he was no longer going to be used, Kors hurriedly pulled on the trouser leg he had taken off from one leg, pulling up his trousers and buttoning his fly.

“Son… what’s the matter with you?” The way Nik looked was depressing. He seemed to break, in an instant, overnight. Kors was discouraged. And this strange dream!

“Nothing,” Nik said. Head low, he rummaged through his bag, and Kors knew what he was looking for there.

“You look terrible. Why did you bandage your face like that?” he asked.

“Well, how? That’s what you did when you treated me.”

“But I…” Kors stammered, he couldn’t tell him now: “But I didn’t really treat you, and there wasn’t a need for such treatment, I just satisfied my vicious fantasies with you a little.” Does Nik really think this is how he should have been treated? Is he so naive that he didn’t understand that Kors wasn’t healing as much as actually playing with him? Limiting him, reveling in his power. Did Nick take everything in good faith? Did he trust Kors? And so, left alone, he repeated the treatment exactly, not realizing what could be done differently? No-o-o! It can’t be! Well, the Demon can’t be so stupid, Kors won’t believe it anymore! Or could it be so? And Nik doesn’t know how to do it in another way, he only knows what his father showed him? Kors tried to quickly analyze the situation logically. Previously, this always helped him in his professional activities. Everything had to be sorted out.

First, his son is in symbiosis with a demonic essence, and this symbiosis is broken and doesn’t bring any benefit to either one or the other. They can harm each other.

Secondly, his son is a man undeveloped and naive, and really may not understand anything in the treatment.

Thirdly, it was forbidden to the Demon to heal and restore the human body of its owner, this is part of the punishment, and Kors understood this. But the Demon could accept treatment from others if they themselves offered. And Kors offered it to him, and the Demon accepted it.

Now he treats himself. But he repeats the actions of Kors and Cassiel! Can he repeat the way others treated him? Reflect their actions? Not anything more?

And Nik trusted Kors. He believed in his authority and accepted treatment from him. And here is the result of the irresponsible actions of Kors! Now Nik is treating himself wrong!

“Son, let me do everything differently now!” Kors exclaimed ardently, overshadowed by his conclusions. “Let me see what’s wrong with you, and now I’ll do everything right. I will choose the right treatment, and then you yourself will repeat after me, as needed, and not as it is now. Let’s fix it, make everything right.”

“I can handle it myself,” Nik answered indifferently, without even looking at his father, and pulled out his black box from his bag.

“Let me order to call Doctor Cassiel…”

Nik just chuckled and shook his head.

“He won’t come.”

“He will!”

“They are three days ahead from us, people have gone far ahead,” Nik opened the box and took out a small metal cylinder from it. Smooth, it gleamed silver in his black fingers, and Kors knew full well what Nik kept in that case.

“He’ll come!”

“No, he won’t. In the Fort, he still tolerated you, but now he is not at all obliged to go to the camp of the unclean ones on the orders of the disgraced black to treat his lover,” Nik unscrewed the lid of the protective case and carefully took out his syringe from it, attached the needle to it.

Kors clenched his teeth.

“I’ll go after him myself and drag him here by force!”

“Zagpeace will quickly put you in a cage there. You’re not going anywhere, and I don’t need any doctor,” leaning heavily towards the box, Nik slightly rattled the bottles of drugs, sorting through them.

“I…”

Nik raised his voice.

“Calm down!”

Kors froze: “I can’t show that I’m afraid.”

Frustratedly turning away from Nik, he took off his cambric shirt and elegant doublet from the back of the chair – the things that Nik had given him yesterday in exchange for wet clothes. Well, what else was left for him? It was cool in the tent, and there were no other clothes nearby. Having dressed, Kors approached the table. The dirty countertop was covered with spilled wine, there were unwashed plates with the remains of meat, pieces of bread were scattered on the table, the ashtray was full of cigarette butts. Kors took the jug and, bringing it up to his nose, sniffed its contents. Again wine, as in a couple of unfinished bottles, and as in a goblet. Well, what a morning! All was going wrong! Kors slammed his goblet on the table with an already barely concealed irritation.

And Nik, who was concentrating on filling the syringe with the drug from the bottle, involuntarily shuddered and turned to him:

“What are you looking for?”

“Water!”

“What?”

“Just water. I’m thirsty, my throat is dry.”

“Have some wine.”

“I don’t want wine!”

“Vitor, stop your whims.”

“I just want to drink a couple of sips of clean water, do you think this is a whim?”

Nik somehow wearily sighed, but didn’t answer. Kors realized that he was mentally calling his Verniy, because very soon he stumbled into their tent. His cloack was wet as the rain still hadn’t stopped. The dog’s head was covered by a helmet. Ver didn’t take it off, he stopped at the threshold. Kors saw his bestial eyes gleam in the narrow slits of his helmet.

“Ver, Vitor needs water,” Nik said without even looking at his unclean habir. He turned his hand palm up, and seemed to carefully examine the inside of the wrist.

The dog turned to Kors.

“What kind of water do you need, sir? Should I bring a bucket of water for you to wash up?”

“Is there any drinking water?” Kors asked.

“I haven’t gone to the spring yet. But the buckets have stood in the rain all night, they are full. Can you bring rain water? She is clean.

“Pour it into the kettle and boil it properly,” Kors ordered, “I won’t drink raw water from a dirty bucket!”

“Okay, sir,” and Ver turned around and left.

“Though I can wash myself, too,” Kors muttered. His mood didn’t improve, and he thought he could still smell the scent of Arel’s body on his skin. The smell left over from the prince’s strong embrace and his hands. It remained on Kors’ body, on his back, his shoulders, his chest. Everywhere that Arel had touched him. Kors looked at Arel. He was half lying relaxed on the trestle bed, the golden blanket almost sliding down to the floor, exposing his muscular torso, his oblique abdominal muscles, and part of his thighs. The prince had another bottle in his hands, and he took a sip from it.

“Arel, don’t mix up the bottles,” said Kors, “I put that one away, of course…”

“Very funny,” he snorted indifferently, and lazily tousled a long lock of his smooth dark brown hair back out of his face.

“Well, I’m just not sure you’d know the difference, it’s just habit, you know…”

But Arel only smirked indulgently with his lips covered with a thick layer of black dye, glinting in contrast with the white jagged edge of a chipped front tooth. He took another sip from the bottle and gave an audible burp, unresponsive to Kors’ jabs, but still as gorgeous and uncommonly attractive as ever.

Kors shook his head judgingly, but habitually:

“A descendant of royalty, indeed.”

He involuntarily continued to admire Arel, knowing that he didn’t give a damn about the impression he was making on those around him.

Kors glanced at Nik. Strongly tightening his forearm with a black cord, he somehow miraculously found a living vein on his arm and managed to inject himself, injecting the drug just below the elbow bend.

“Nik, maybe you can lie down with Arel, cover yourself with a blanket?” Kors suggested. “It’s cold on the floor, I feel it with my feet.”

“I don’t feel cold. I’m not cold,” Nik said. Kors called him Nik, but he didn’t correct him.

“Just because you don’t feel cold it doesn’t mean you have to lie in a draft.”

“I don't feel cold,” Nik repeated, leaning toward his box again.

So he took care of his slaves in their still human bodies, put them gently on the bed and covered them to keep them warm, but he didn’t care about his own body, just lay down on the floor, on the skins.

“Why don’t you feel the cold? You’re human, but you can lie down in the snow, can’t you?” Kors didn’t understand that.

“Yes, I can. A lot of people are used to the cold. It’s a habit,” Nick said faintly, but he did.

Kors watched him sit on the hide, with his head bandaged and his hair tangled, sticking out from under the bandages. Kors watched as he put something back into the syringe. One of his thick white braids, which Kors had so lovingly braided, was now disheveled and sticking out from under the top layer of shorter hair. It was disheveled, and the tip lay on the dirty floorboards. Playing with Nik and decorating him to his liking, Kors had begun to braid the bottom layer of his hair back in Ore Town. He remembered that this was how Nik’s hair had been braided the first time he was brought in for questioning. The bottom layer of his hair had been braided into four braids, one of which was very short, cut by Arel. Kors had ordered Nik to unbraid his hair then, to show him off at the Spring Ball in all his glory, but later he began to braid him himself, fixing his hair beautifully with bobby pins and, in addition, to keep it tousled longer, he bound it tightly with long thin cords adorned with faceted black and turquoise beads. It was probably wrong, too – beads were usually used by girls to decorate their braids – but Nik looked so much like a girl, so delicate and sweet, and Kors liked it when he was neatly combed and tidy. Later he would braid Nik’s hair in the Fort as well, thus trying to pass the time and do something to occupy himself without taking a restorative or drinking too much. Nik never even looked at what he was braiding into his hair, how he was decorating it. He always sat there obediently, not moving, like a doll, and he never minded Kors, letting him braid his hair, put as many different colored beads in it as he wanted, pin it with different pins. Even now he hadn’t taken them off; his hair had just come undone, unraveled, and was now touching the floor. And Nik didn’t pay any attention to it, didn’t take care of himself, didn’t take care of his beautiful hair.

“What are you wearing?!”

Kors saw that Nik was wearing the clothes of the unclean ones again. His leather trousers were visibly frayed at the knees, on the outer sides there was a wide strip of lacing, it seemed, in three rows, one to the other, and maybe more, with some complex intricacies of the unclean ones. Probably, it could have been beautiful once upon a time… but now it was torn, tied somehow into sloppy knots with protruding dangling ends. Moreover, the trousers were sewn over the edge in some places. Kors saw a rough seam under the knee. On the thigh, a torn flap was roughly fixed by lacing, so that the hole was still visible, and through it and loose lacing, Nik’s tattooed thigh was visible, and also it could be seen that he was again without underwear. A short vest was put on his naked body, barely reaching the waist; it didn’t cover his sunken stomach. In general, it was not clear from what pieces it was sewn, on the shoulders there was the shabby fur of some animal, which apparently died at the dawn of time, it was slightly puffed up. Boots were lying nearby, again boots of the unclean ones, with heavy soles and a blunt cape, adorned with a million iron buckles and clasps to the very top.

Kors couldn’t resist:

“What kind of tattered stuff are you wearing? Did Valentine sleep on it at the doorstep? It’s just that you wouldn’t give such shit to your beloved Verniy.”

“These are my clothes.”

“No, Nik, these rags can’t be called clothes. What is that shabby fur on your shoulders?”

“This is my blouse!”

“Is it knitted?”

“Kiss my ass!”

“Nik, this is the edge, don’t wear it ever again. I gave you good clothes! Or do you now refuse to wear them?”

“No, I don’t refuse. Not only your clothes got wet,” oddly enough, but Nik tried to explain.

He carefully peeled the band-aid from his neck, slightly touching the indentation from the healed “well” with his fingertips, and put the needle of the refilled syringe under the hoop of the golden collar.

Kors turned away.

“Nik, let me help you with your treatment,” he said a little later, waiting for a moment.

“I'm fine.”

“Are you taking the medicines I gave you, the ones the doctor gave you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you still have any left?”

“I have.”

“Do you remember that they need to be taken regularly at the same time?”

“I remember.”

“I still have some left to share with you?”

“I told you, I still have some!”

“Can you show me your face?”

“What? No!”

“Show me what’s wrong with your scar!”

“Nothing.”

“What happened to your face?!” Kors couldn’t hide his excitement.

“I said nothing!”

“Is the scar inflamed? Yes? What’s happening? You bandaged your face too much. What’s up with your scar?”

“Nothing.”

“But you bandaged your face for some reason!”

“I got a tattoo on it, okay? Is that all?”

“What?!” Kors froze, shaking his head. “No, no, this is stupidity. Are you kidding? You’re lying? Is this a stupid joke? Don’t joke like that, I’ve always said that humor is not for you!”

“Leave me alone!”

But Kors couldn’t stand it:

“I can’t take it anymore! My strength is gone! I’ll break all your needles! I’ll pour out all your colors! Do whatever you want with me! Blind, humiliate, beat me, I will endure everything, but I will deprive you of the opportunity to disfigure this body, at least now, while we are on the road!”

“I can do it with my own syringe if I want to. Soot, urine and a needle from a syringe – that’s all, I don’t need anything else,” Nik answered calmly, not reacting in any way to the fact that Kors switched to screaming.

“No! You can’t lie, I’m about to die! Be honest! I can’t stand it if you get more tattoos! I still can’t come to terms and accept that your face has a brand on it, like cattle!”

“Yes…”

“People write with ink on paper, and not on the forehead, it would be better to learn this!”

“I can write on paper!”

“Yes?”

“Yes!”

“I didn’t notice that you wrote at least something at least once on one piece of paper during this time!”

“It’s just that you never asked me to write. I can write!”

“Come on, write then!”

“Now I won’t write anything for you!”

“You only know how to write on your forehead! Admit it, you can’t lie to me, were you joking about the tattoo?”

“Yes, I was joking,” Nik agreed.

Kors breathed a sigh of relief.

“Don’t joke like that anymore, it’s stupid. Poison began to come out of your scar, as Cassiel had warned? Answer me!”

“It constantly flows from it,” Nik reluctantly answered him and bent to his leg, slightly lifting up his trouser leg.

“Oh,” barely calming down that Nik was joking about the tattoo, Kors got nervous again, “what is flowing out?”

Nik didn’t answer, carefully examining his leg.

And even now, in spite of everything, Kors wanted to educate him, give Nik a good beating and properly punish him for all the nonsense that he had done. For the fact that he never really obeyed, stubbornly doing everything as he liked. For blinding him yesterday and letting him be hit. And for the way he looked now: sloppy, dirty, dressed in God knows what. Ill, with a bandaged face, but at the same time stubbornly continuing to stick to his line. He jokes stupidly, knowing that he will cause a surge of emotions in Kors with just the word “face – tattoo.” He sniffs with his ringed nose and constantly brings his hand to it, touching and tugging at it.

Ignoring Kors and apparently not listening to his emotions and thoughts about himself, Nik tried to put the needle to his leg. Kors looked at his black tattooed skin and the wide black band of the “bracelet” that went around his ankle just above his foot. The shameful slave stripe was clearly visible and stood out, even though the patterns of other tattoos. Something like sharp teeth was closely adjacent to it. Teeth on the leg, well, only Nik could do such a thing, Kors was no longer surprised. To destroy himself every second was an irresistible craving for his son and the Demon. Slightly turning his foot to the side, Nik injected the drug into the inside of the leg just above the ankle.

“What is the number of injection you have already given yourself?” Kors asked. The way with which maniacal persistence and without respite Nik poured substances into himself began to frighten Kors.

Silence. He was stoned. Already in the morning. How to make him obey? Unfortunately, no way.

“Do you want to overdose again?”

“No,” Nik slightly shook his head in a negative gesture and lay on his back, “I also need water, only another, not rain.”

“Again?!”

“What do you mean again?”

“Didn’t you say you injected it in your Limit?”

“So what? How much time has passed?”

“No, it will never end!”

“It will end. Soon the body will stop rising.”

“I won't survive if you die!”

“I have been dead for a long time.”

“Nik! Why are you making me emotional?! You endlessly take emotions out of me! Stop eating me!”

Nik lay motionless, his good leg bent at the knee and his bandaged head slightly thrown back, a tousled braid with beads woven into it sweeping the floor beside him. He didn’t answer Kors, as if he didn’t hear him.

Without thinking, in some kind of frenzy, Kors rushed to him, and, grabbing his forearm, jerked him up from the skins. Nik quickly glared at him from the gap between the bandages, but said nothing, remained seated. But that look… Kors’ insides went cold.

“Don’t touch,” said Nik very calmly, and this made his voice sound even more terrible.

“I’m sorry…” Kors whispered, but immediately shouted again in despair:

“How long are you going to torment me, Black Demon?! Seeing how you destroy this body, I am dying together with you!”

“Go away, I won’t touch you, you yourself are rubbing the skin around me!”

“What?”

“You come to me. Why are you here? Do you understand what you are doing now?”

“Yeah, damn it, I can’t get off! Knowing what kind of rubbish you are, I still can’t! You tied me well! Insatiable fucked up rubbish!”

“Go away,” Nik said.

“But you’re sick!" Let me help you!”

“I am the Demon that eats you and torments you, who took away all the people close to you and ruined your life, whom are you going to help?!”

“My son.”

“Your son? A lame fool with a shameful… brand on his face? He doesn’t deserve you. Get out!”

“But where should I go?”

“Wherever you want!”

“Are you letting me go?” Kors didn’t believe it.

“No. I won’t let you really go, don’t hope. Just get out now, otherwise I’ll beat you, I’ll just kill you! Don’t you believe me?”

“You said that you didn’t stop loving me, despite my imperious character, and now it means that you still stopped loving me? Don’t you love me anymore?”

“What the difference?”

“If you reflect my feelings, hear how you torment me. You’re torturing me!”

“Do you think you’re suffering? Am I torturing you? Well, then you still have a lot of surprises waiting for you! And now get out!”

Nik suddenly began to wheeze in a strange way, as if he was choking, and made a sharp movement of his head, as if he was about to vomit, grabbing his throat. Kors watched in horror.

“Get out and don’t show up until I call you!” Nik croaked.

“You’re Chasing me like a dog?”

“Don’t provoke me!”

“I don’t give a fuck! My son lives in you! You are in symbiosis with a human, and you are half a man, you feel bad! What’s wrong with you now?!”

Nik jerked sharply again, holding his throat, as if he was trying to expel something from himself, one, two, three times. Kors remembered too well how sick and nauseous he himself once was.

“Nik, you have overdosed! Damned addict!”

Nik fell back, covering his face with his hands.

Kors was shaking:

“Nik, you’re being mean to me because you’re essentially a child! You have not developed as a person and personality! I have seen you! I have seen how your so-called mother treated you! Little lonely abandoned boy! Nobody needs an orphan, defenseless from the cruelty of adults and their arbitrariness. Dependent on them in his childish weakness. This creature tortured you! Kept you in some kind of closet, as if in a grave!”

“A-a-a-ah…”

“I’m really sorry! You began to take drugs and alcohol in order to forget about the dislike and indifference of others. You never found a core inside yourself, you didn’t even learn how to comb your hair! You are a lost man of the social bottom, and you will never be able to rise to a normal society without support! Drugs, alcohol, promiscuity, perversions, cruelty, lack of honor and dignity…”

“Stop doing that!” Nik literally howled and covered his ears with his hands hidden by bandages.

“Look at yourself! Who do you look like? Who have you become? You stopped listening to me and instantly rolled back into the pit. Without my support, attention and education, you immediately sank down and gave up. Not a couple of weeks have passed since our quarrel, and you again rolled back to where I pulled you from! Instead of stupidly devouring me, evoking emotions and feeding on them and on my blood, you should have obeyed me! A bad demonic essence merging with an equally bad human, why don’t you listen to your father? If you listened to me, everything would be fine!”

“Leave.”

“Okay, I’ll leave, but you know…”

“Get out already, fuck you!” yelled Nik, and, abruptly sitting on the skins, he threw one of his heavy unclean boots in Kors.

Kors barely dodged, rushing out the door.

He was very offended.

Chapter 4

Trembling with resentment and anger, Kors was standing at the threshold of their camping tent in the drizzling rain. In lace and a half-buttoned luxurious camisole, decorated with buttons with precious stones and gold embroidery on the lapels, in pants made of expensive suede leather, and at the same time barefoot. He looked down at his feet. A true black, noble gentleman, the elite of the World without a sky, standing barefoot in the mud, in a rain puddle. Kors didn’t remember at all when the last time he walked the earth barefoot, probably, it was in his long forgotten childhood. And now he was in complete shock. He was simply kicked him out, barefoot, in the rain, in the mud, not really dressed, and dressed not at all according to the situation. Nik kicked him out like a dog! He doesn’t listen to anything! He threatened to kill Kors! And where should he go now? But he won’t come back, if so! To ask to be taken back, to ask for forgiveness, to crawl on his knees again – no!

Barely overcoming disgust, Kors cautiously stepped into the liquid mud, mixed with hay and dung. Afraid of injuring his feet on some loose horseshoe nail or broken bottle, he took a few steps forward. The edges of his trouser legs were already wet and dirty. Probably, it was necessary to immediately pull them up or roll them up, but then he would look even stupider. Where’s his damn horse, fucking Grrkh? Kors called out to him loudly, immediately hearing a whinny in response from quite a distance away. He quickly passed several low tents. Smoke curled over them, for sure there were housekeeping Verniy and Valentine there, maybe even at that moment they were boiling water for Kors. But Kors didn’t want to see them, and even more didn’t want them to see him in such a pitiful state. He found Grrkh tied up under a rectangular canopy set up on tall poles. His horse stood calmly next to Unclean Power and Beauty. In addition to the fact that a roof was built for the horses, protecting them from the rain, Grrkh was unsaddled and carefully covered with a woolen blanket. Next to him, on a clean pallet, lay hay and a bucket filled to the brim with water. “The horse is treated better than me!” Kors thought angrily. He looked around for his saddle, but couldn’t find it, there was not a single saddle at all. It looked like Verniy had taken all the saddles and harness to his tent, away from dampness and rain. “The horses are well-groomed, and there is more order here than in the tent of Nik and Arel! Only you always have dirt, cold and a mess! Well, go to hell!” Still being angry, Kors roughly pulled off the blanket from the horse and jumped on him without a saddle, feeling a strong shiver ran through Grrkh’s body from the scruff of the neck to the tail. The horse twitched under the rider, and neighed, nervously stepping with his hooves, but Kors paid no attention to this. Yelling a command furiously and kicking the horse’s flanks with his muddy heels, he urged him onward to where he had come from the day before, and where his Parky and Adrian had been.

Responding to the call, Parky jumped out of his tent, and, since Kors took him by surprise, the unclean one couldn’t restrain his emotions, and admiration flashed in his eyes for just a second. Kors noticed this and understood the reason. Yes, the camisole was really luxurious, but Parky couldn’t realize the fact that wearing it in such a situation was inappropriate, just like Nick, and by the way, all the other unclean couldn’t either. And the fact that Kors was wearing expensive clothes, but at the same time had bare feet in the mud, didn’t seem strange to Parky at all.

Kors dismounted. The fact that he was without shoes was incredibly depressing to him.

“Parky! Set up my tent immediately! You have five minutes!”

“Yes, commander! I can suggest you, commander, to take shelter in my tent for the time being. It’s raining.”

Kors didn’t want to go into the unclean’s tent at all, but standing there like a fool in front of his subordinates was also a dubious option.

“All right, just move quicker!”

Kors entered his captain’s tent. To his relief, it was fairly clean and comfortable inside. A table and chairs stood against one wall, and a sleeping place was located at the other, it was a low flooring littered with skins. Tyutya was sitting on it, cross-legged. Undressed, with her bright hair disheveled, she looked in horror at Kors, and he looked at her terrible burn scars in place of her breast and a deep vertical scar on her stomach. “What kind of pervert do you have to be, Parky, to want that?” Kors thought, and, apparently, disgust was involuntarily reflected on his face, because the slave, coming to her senses, grabbed her dress, put it on very quickly, threw on the cape in a matter of seconds and rushed out of the tent. Kors sat down at the table and, taking Parky’s cigarette from the box lying on it, lit it. He heard that there was a fuss in the street, the cries of the unclean, Parks was giving out jerky commands.

After trying to calm down a bit, Kors decided to analyze the situation. What did he do wrong again? Now why did he offend him? What did he say to Nik that was so hurtful? Nothing! He hadn’t said or done anything wrong! It was Nik who offended him, deceived, sucked him out and ate as he wanted. The demon was cynically eating the victim, who didn’t suspect anything and was confident in his honesty. And even after everything that the Demon had done to him, after the lies and betrayal were revealed, he, like a father, sincerely wanted to help him with the treatment! And Nik, as a gratitude, yelled at him and threw a boot at him! His unreasonable outbursts of rage were simply unsettling. Even Prince Arel, despite all his foolishness, behaves more adequately and consistently. Nik is very sick. How annoying it is! Inadequate moron, an orphan with crippled psyche, and in addition sharing a body with a punished outcast Demon. What had Lis told him once? “I’m no longer surprised that your demon friends kicked you out of their world!” Exactly! Lis was right! And what can I want after that? What reasonable action can I await from the abnormal? But, in spite of everything, I’m nice to him, and he is evil again! Why is Nik angry again? He absolutely cannot stand being told the truth. He doesn’t want to hear the truth about himself. He cries, he gets angry. But at the same time, he does nothing to change for the better, and doesn’t listen to anything. “He gets through only thanks to his cute appearance, for which, by the way, he should be grateful to me! And I always looked after him and loved him! And how can I help him, if he rejects everything himself, tramples, repels. Any patience will burst!” Kors thought.

Kors often thought: what if he had remained silent that evening, had not said that he had seen the truth? Everything would remain the same, and the Demon wouldn’t punish him? But then they would continue to consider him a fool, over whom they could make fun and brazenly use him. No, that was not an option either. Now they will at least know that he understood everything and is not so easily fooled. “What a deceiver Nik is!” Kors again went into resentment. “But now Nik won’t be able to fool me anymore. And everything will be fair. Just how? “I’m Nikto, I’m reflecting”, and what are you going to reflect there? I didn't throw my boots at you!”

Kors tried to remember everything he had done to Nik, and everything Nik himself had done to him:

“Nik said, ‘I don't like beating you.’ My ass! In his Limit, he beat me not weakly! He didn’t pity me, he beat me with pleasure. He avenged me in full, both for his interrogation in prison and for Arel. He broke my nose, I was black with bruises, and he fucked me, enjoying the sight of my body covered with purple bruises, admiring my disfigured swollen face. Everything was fine and he liked everything. “I don’t like beating you” – oh yeah! He nearly killed me recently. If Arel hadn’t saved me, hadn’t distracted the Demon, he would have killed me. And yesterday. I still feel that hit. I was beaten with all might. I must have a concussion. Maybe it was not he, of course, but the prince, but in any case, he probably ordered this to be done. Or, even if he didn’t order, and it was entirely Arel’s initiative, he didn’t stop him. Didn’t say anything. I never beat him like that! What was I doing with him? Well… I insulted him, humiliated, “beat with words”, as he says, okay, that’s the least of my worries, these are just words. I tied him up, chained him up and blindfolded him. Well, it started yesterday. He dragged me on chains and blinded me. Also… I was beating him, not hard, but I was beating him. And I will get it, this is also understandable, it also started yesterday. What else? I put a bag on his head, put a stick in his… “Oh-oh-oh! – Kors literally jumped up in his chair, – Well, I have to distract myself now from this… What else could it be? Maybe there is something worse? I gave him a good beating with a belt for a lesson not learned, no… a stick seems to be worse. Shit! – Kors grabbed his captain’s cigarettes again. – Even at the celebration of the victory in Ore Town, I hit him in front of everyone at the table and knocked out his tooth. But damn it, I’m not to blame! Nik anyway had all his lower teeth staggered! I didn’t hit him too hard, the tooth fell out by itself, Prince Arel was the first to loosen them. No, the stick is the worst! Definitely it is the worst! I hope he doesn’t do it now, on the road, then I just won’t be able to get on the horse. No, he won’t. But when we return to the Black City, nothing will hold him back. What to do?! I have to fight, it’s pointless to ask for mercy. Should I call Zaf? He offered it himself. He worries about me because he knows his White Lord. Should I make another deal with the Demon? But what can I offer him? Money, slaves? The demon is not interested in it. Myself? Ha! The demon has taken everything from me! Pride, honor, affections. And love. The Demon has also taken my body and soul from me. Nothing is left. I have nothing to offer him. So what kind of deal can we talk about if I gave everything away a long time ago? And Nick won’t remember how much good I did for him, how I took care of him, treated him, dressed and fed him, he won’t “reflect” this, it’s clear, it’s not interesting to reflect love and care! What to do? To address Leonardo in the city? After all, we really didn’t quarrel, and formally remain friends. Leo has his own Demons, let him deal with my silly one. Gods, what am I thinking about?! Well, what is left? I need support. It is very difficult to live without the support of influential friends, and when you are with support, and the one who needs puts a word here and there, everything is completely different. I need patrons. Well. Zaf himself offered help, that’s great! And he has already warned about a certain “critical situation”. It’s a serious matter, I need to get out. In this, Lis was a master, that’s who could now help, calm the Demon and give me sensible advice on how to behave better. Well, at least he would just defuse the situation and make me laugh with a rude saying of commoners. Yes, Lis, you know how to joke, red-haired beast! But how to contact him? Lis doesn’t hear a damn thing, and neither does my daughter. Shit! Salafael! Should I try to get through to him? He’s the connection of the Demon with Lis. But maybe Salafael only hears the Demon? Or the Demon won’t allow to communicate with him? And if he does, what should I say to Salafael? “Go to Lis and say…” Say what? Tell him all the details? What if Lis is there with his father busy with the affairs of the city? Well, it doesn’t matter, nothing terrible, he will get distracted. What if he’s just lying around drunk? It’s more likely. Surely now his father does everything for him, as I did everything before. Lis can only look for trouble, drink and pour sayings. Salafael has Shag! And Zaf certainly has a connection with his brother! That’s already something!”

Having outlined the circle of possible defenders, Kors calmed down a little. He will not be offended.

“But why is Nik such a fool? Why?” Composure turned out to be short-lived, Kors couldn’t pull himself together. Thoughts swirled in his head over and over again. He went through all the possible options for future events in the third circle, over and over again thinking about the situation in which he found himself and how to get out of it with the least losses. All kinds of versions wound up on each other, the assumptions became more and more fantastic. One by one, Kors smoked Parky’s cigarettes, feeling that he was losing his last strength in empty fabrications, and couldn’t stop.

“What could I be missing? What I didn’t pay attention to? What else can I think of? And how can Lis help? Lis bends himself. They rolled Lis themselves as they wanted before going to Ore Town. He got it great, and he obeyed. How will he help me? With a joke? In fact, I helped him. I acted as his patron, promised to persuade the Demon, change his anger to mercy, so that the Demon would finally allow Lis to wipe the shameful clown makeup from his face. However, I didn’t have time to do this, but Lis thought that I had asked for him, and said to me: “Thank you!” So Lis must now help me! Return a debt! What if I speak frankly with Leonardo in the city? The conversation is very difficult, and what will Leonardo say to this?

“Mission accomplished!”

Kors jumped sharply in surprise. The insane flow of his thoughts was interrupted by Parky. He had entered the tent, unceremoniously jerking Kors back to reality, and now stood in front of him, awaiting further orders.

“Commander, everything is ready,” the unclean one reported again, seeing that Kors was just sitting, staring blankly at him, and was silent.

“Ah… And… horse. Have you put my horse under a canopy?” Kors finally spoke up.

“Yes, sir!” Parky saluted.

“All right.” Kors had nothing to complain about. Parky’s tent was clean and free of luxuries, which Kors felt were not due to his subordinate. Ascetic, modest, nothing more than necessary. Kors’ tent was quickly set up by the unclean ones. The horse was being looked after. Kors got up, proudly straightened his back, and, making a stone expression on his face, headed for the exit. And noticing that he had left dirty footprints in Parky’s tent, he tried to make his face even more haughty.

Entering his room, Kors saw Tyutya. She sat on her knees, her head bowed low, covered with a black cape, and next to her stood a basin of water. Kors understood everything, and immediately sat down on a chair. “If the water is cold, I will make you regret it!” he thought angrily, still wanting to vent his annoyance on someone. But the water in the basin was warm, pleasantly warming her cold feet. Tyutya very carefully and delicately began to wash off the dirt from his feet with a washcloth lathered with soap. Her hands were open, and Kors saw that a thin gold ring with a blue stone gleamed on the slave’s finger. “Oh, Parky, stupid wolf! What are you doing? Why do you give a useless cunning fox precious gifts? How does she do it? How does this red bitch manage to shake it out of him? After all, she has nothing! No tongue, no breasts, a dry cut hole. There is nothing, but, nevertheless, she has an influence on my captain, some kind of secret power, which she shamelessly uses for her own purposes and for her own good. She has hidden leverage, thought Kors, and I have no way to influence Nik! And why don’t I still have such an invisible power as Prince Arel has! That’s the only reason I can’t give them a fitting rebuff. Of course! Arel will quickly crush me with his strength, and Nik even more so possesses it to perfection. But not me! And they are not equal! Why do I hear useless thoughts, but I can’t squeeze anyone? Squeeze anyone’s throat!”

Kors tried to imagine how he squeezes Tyutya’s throat. Parky followed Kors’ orders and covered the slave with a cape, but not the one she wore in the city. This cape was lighter and looser, made of thin silky fabric, falling down in beautiful folds, it didn’t restrict movement so much. On the head, over a long flowing shawl, was tied a wide forehead bandage, tightened with a knot at the back of the head. Little space was left for the eyes. The forehead bandage and the fabric covering the face were connected together over the bridge of the nose with a thin black ribbon. The slave’s eyes were lowered and almost invisible, but Kors, sitting in a chair and looking down at the girl, saw her chestnut fluffy eyelashes tremble when she blinked. He saw that her upper eyelids were beautifully accentuated with black paint. He himself didn’t understand why this irritated him so much, and therefore angrily continued to imagine how he was squeezing her neck with both hands, but Tyutya didn’t raise her eyes and calmly continued to rub his feet with a washcloth. Nothing worked with her!

“Well, if I can’t touch such weak rubbish, then what can I say about others! They’ll kill me now if they want to! On distance!” In desperation, Kors again tried to squeeze Tyutya, and again nothing happened. He stepped back. Tyutya began to rinse his clean feet with water from a jug.

“Tyutya… Tyutya… does this bitch even have a name? Maybe knowing her real name, I can influence her?” And as soon as Kors thought about it, a set of numbers and letters appeared before his eyes. Kors saw it very clearly – “ms13590vg”. He always memorized numerical combinations easily, often marking his documents with numbers. He said to his secretary: “Bring me a folder number such and such from the archive …” I knew by heart all the numbers of the articles of the code. No, it seemed that Tyuti never had a name as such, but she had an inventory number!

Night. A low gray barrack with rows of wicker mats on the floor. Many girls, a couple of dozen, or even more, lie on mats and sleep. Here is Tyutya. She doesn’t sleep, clings to the girl lying next to her, they hug, cling to each other. Tyutya is eight or nine years old, but girls can be older, Kors is already used to the fact that the children in his visions always look not at their real age, because of difficult life circumstances they are thin and small. And Tyutya still has a tongue, and her breast has not yet been touched, it simply doesn’t exist, because it has not grown yet. A whole kaleidoscope of very bright, warm and pleasant moments swirls past his gaze, always associated with this other girl, whose inventory number is “ms137100of”. She and Tyutya are best friends, always together, laughing, hugging, kissing each other. He sees some classes in which slaves are taught to work. Girls also learn to wear a cape, Tyutya and all other learners have no face. They are constantly washing, scrubbing, rubbing and cleaning. They don’t really like it, but there is nowhere to go, and they dutifully perform tasks: they sweep and wash the floors, wash dirty dishes to a shine, weed some beds, pick ripe dark red berries from tall bushes. Daily work from early morning to late evening. On a certain day they are beaten, not for any faults, but just for order, they are beaten quite noticeably. Kors quickly flips through the story of the life of a slave, like the pages of a book that is not interesting to him. He doesn’t want to look at the memories, consisting of endless work, beatings and violence. But he sees that every night Tyutya and “ms137100of” cling to each other on their miserable mats and love each other. Oddly enough, their teachers don’t pay much attention to this. Adult women, covered with capes and faceless, they are not interested in the life of their wards.

And the girls themselves perceive them indifferently, like day and night, rain and wind, some forces of nature that exist in the world around them. Tyutya and her girlfriend dutifully live in the proposed circumstances and at the same time in their personal little world, which no one cares about, and that’s where the girlfriends are interested, and they are happy. But only for the time being. Kors notes that the girls have grown and hears one of the mentors say to the other, pointing to “ms137100of”:

“This one is very lazy, she shall be sent to the hospital, the wounded soldiers need blood. And this one,” and she points to Tyutya, “is more industrious, and a little smarter than her, she shall be a domestic assistant.”

The friends are separated, and Kors realizes that Tyutya has never seen “ms137100of” again, most likely, in the hospital she was very soon gutted into organs for wounded soldiers. And Tyutya was crippled according to tradition, finally wrapped in a yarn and sent to work. But, oddly enough, Kors gets the impression that this girl seems to be always next to Tyutya. Tyutya continues to mentally return to her, recalls their childhood games, and absolutely every night she sees her in a dream, where they play together and love each other. No, she doesn’t suffer, and probably doesn’t even miss her friend in the literal sense of the word, experiencing rather a slight sadness – it happened and, therefore, it was destined to be. Complete acceptance of the situation and submission to fate, no matter how unfair it may be. Accept the situation. ACCEPT and RELEASE.

“Fuck you in the ass, Tyutya!” Kors flared up indignantly in his thoughts. “The last thing I need is your senseless childhood! Well, what a misfortune is this gift – to see other people’s lives! Why do I need this information? So, you, Tyutya, are not indifferent to girls, but what difference does it make to me?!”

Having done her job, Tyutya calmly left, but what was Kors to do now?

“Order to bring more water and wash? Fix myself up?” But he didn’t want to. “Order to bring lunch?” There was no desire. “Order to bring wine?” But Kors knew that in such a mood, wine wouldn’t help him, but only aggravate the situation. Intoxication would give false relief for a short time, and for this it will be necessary to drink a lot, and when he sobers up, he will begin to experience unbearable attacks of fear, much stronger than now, and he would have to drink again to calm down, he would get stuck, and would be long and painfully get out of all this shit. It already happened.

“Maybe go to sleep? But the time is noon,” Kors lost interest in life, and everything was indifferent to him. He lay down on his camp bed and just lay there stupidly, not moving, until Parky disturbed him.

“Commander, may I report? Verniy has come there, he is asking you.”

Kors jumped to his feet, his heart pounding wildly, but he pulled himself together and said with a wry smile:

“What, your friend has come, the same stupid wolf?”

But Parky shook his head in a negative gesture.

“No, commander, don’t compare us. I’m from a free tribe, and Ver is a watchdog.”

“Let him enter!”

But to Kors’ dismay, Verniy didn’t say “Master is calling you back” or anything like that, he only brought dried clothes, boots and a bottle of water.

“Sir, your clothes. And you asked for water, I boiled it well and cooled it. I poured it into a bottle for easy drinking. Here is your drinking water.”

“Thanks,” Kors muttered.

“I wonder what Nik is doing there now?” Kors thought, and couldn’t resist:

“Verniy, what does the master do?”

“The masters are sleeping,” Verniy replied.

“Well, of course! What else can they do!” thought Kors and said:

“Verniy, shift your master from the floor, cover him with a blanket, take care of him.”

Verniy nodded.

“But only if he wants to, you understand.”

“Yes. But try! Don’t you care that your master lay down on the floor and might catch a cold?”

“I try to do my duty as best as possible, but I don’t have the right to tell him what to do,” Verniy explained, “DO YOUR OWN AND DON’T GO OUT OF YOUR OWN.”

“What a stupid dog,” Kors was indignant, “okay! But I hope you still love your master!”

“I love him,” Verniy agreed and left.

And Kors looked at the pile of clothes that the unclean one had brought him. “What's the point of dressing now? Change clothes?” He took his golden cigarette case out of his jacket pocket and turned the flat box sadly between his fingers.

Hike to the Ore Town.

“Vitor, take it.”

Nik tells him, and Kors looks up in confusion.

Nik is holding his golden cigarette case in his hand:

“I have put your favorite cigarettes in it.”

“My cigarette case?”

“Yes, you left it in our room a long time ago and completely forgot about it. You don’t need it anymore?”

“I need it,” and Kors holds out his hand, taking from Nik a flat gold box, decorated with blue stones around the edge, his cigarette case. He opens it and sees with amazement that it is full, one might even say stuffed with cigarettes. They are neatly stacked in rows in two layers, tightly pressed against one another, on both sides.

“Thank you”, Kors thanks, dazed, hesitating at first to disturb the order of his cigarettes, which are so beautifully arranged. But then he pulls out one and lights it up.

“Vitor, I love you,” Nik says quietly.

And Kors doesn’t believe his ears:

“What?!”

Nik seriously and somehow very attentively looks at him and repeats:

“I love you. I don’t play now and don’t reflect.”

And Kors throws away his cigarette, falls to his knees:

“But why? Why now?!” There are tears in his eyes.

“I don’t know,” Nik shrugs, “it doesn’t happen on purpose, but somehow by itself. It is so? And you can’t explain. But this is for real, I'm not fooling you now. It’s true.”

And Kors kisses his hands and whispers:

“I will do everything for you! What do you want?!”

“Just be who you are.”

“But I lecture you all the time and generally talk a lot.”

“Talk,” and Nik pulls him to him to kiss…

They loved each other that night, the first time they loved each other as a threesome.

It was then that Kors felt some unreal unity of the three of them, ecstasy, and the Power that this merger gave them. And in this trinity he achieved bliss.

“I’m happy, I’m happy now. Will you take me with you to your world?”

“Do you want it?!”

“Yes! More than anything! I didn’t want it before, but now I do. Let me not become a Demon like Arel, let me just remain your slave, but please take me with you, I beg you!”

“You will become it.”

“What?! What have you said?”

“You will become a Demon. Or rather, it’s not like that, you don’t need to become one, you always have been one .”

“O-o-oh!” And Kors covered his face with his hands in despair. What for? Why did he remember it now?

Chapter 5

After recovering a little from the vivid feelings and memories that flooded over him, Kors finally opened the cigarette case. It was practically empty, only a couple of cigarettes remained in it.

“I need to call Adrian, let him bring me cigarettes,” thought Kors and mentally called his slave.

Putting a box on the table, Adrian stood in front of the owner, his head down and looking at the floor. Kors involuntarily noted to himself that Adrian was very thin. His once-fitting warrior clothes now literally hung on him, and he had to tie his pants around his waist with an extra belt or they would just fall off. When Adrian was in the saddle, it was not so noticeable, but now Kors was struck by how emaciated his slave was. For a fraction of a second, he even felt sorry for him.

“How does it feel to be punished by the White Lord?” Kors said aloud, turning the cigarette case in his hands in confusion and thinking about his own thoughts.

But Adrian took it as a question put to him:

“I put a punishment on me myself, master,” he replied, still not raising his head and continuing to stare stubbornly at the floor.

Kors put down his cigarette case and grinned skeptically.

“Yourself?”

“The motto of the White Lord is ‘FEAR NOTHING’, but I was afraid. I got scared and began to fall down. He wanted the best, I myself didn’t listen to him, didn’t believe him and gave up. I didn’t hear what was being told me. As a result, I started to fall lower and lower,” for a split second, Adrian looked up at Kors, looking into his face somehow very seriously and attentively, but then lowered his head again.

Kors froze, “Does Nik have a motto? But he didn’t tell me! All the unclean ones know it, but me! I decided that Nik’s motto was “Never ask for anything.” And Nik agreed with me. As always, he agreed and didn’t object. He didn’t say, “No. I have a different motto.” Right, why saying so? Let everyone around know his motto, except for his father! Who cares?! Deceiver! But now everything will be different!”

“Okay, enough of this nonsense, go to hell, Adry! Kors said irritably, and his slave backed quickly towards the exit.

Kors suddenly thought that he had never once asked Adrian what his wrongdoing was. He was not interested in this and other unclean one. “That’s a coward” – so roughly he was told, and Kors didn’t elaborate. So what was your cowardice, Adrian? And yet, what’s the difference?

Kors was toiling the rest of the day. He either lay down on the bed, then got up and smoked, and so every twenty minutes. He was bored, dreary, unbearably lonely and scared. Nothing happened the way he wanted, and he did not know what to do, knowing full well that Nik was sleeping and would not call him. It was necessary to wait. Unable to stand it, Kors nevertheless “looked” at him.

Their tent was still in disarray, Verniy and Valentine hadn’t cleaned anything, and Nik’s boot was still lying at the entrance, where he had thrown it. Kors saw Nik and Arel. They slept together on a narrow couch, carelessly covered with a brocade blanket and huddling close to each other. Nik lay in place of Kors. His face remained wrapped in black strips of cloth. He had kicked Kors out, but he didn’t take them off, he didn’t unbandage his face. “Probably, there really is something serious,” Kors thought sadly, “he won’t cope with the treatment, he will ruin everything, he will ruin everything completely! What a stubborn idiot!”

Nik was lying pressed against Arel. Kors saw his tattooed and therefore seemingly black shoulder, completely painted and, because of that, the same black arm lying on top of the “golden” blanket. He hugged Arel, and he slept peacefully, his mouth slightly open and snoring softly. The prince’s hair, like a waterfall of dark chocolate, flowed down from the edge of the trestle bed to the floor. “But why does Nik love Arel so much?!” Kors didn’t understand. “They are always together. Did they ever really fight? Why? Why does he love him so much?!”

“Arel never helped him, did nothing for Nik. Unreliable, capricious and cruel descendant of an ancient family, he always mistreated his people, and Nik was no exception. Arel used him, not sparing, ordered to get money for him! He didn’t treat him, but on the contrary, he only beat and maimed him. Humiliated him. He put a “chastity belt” on him. He didn’t develop him in any way, didn’t explain the rules of life, didn’t give reasonable and useful advice! Didn’t take him out of jail. He did nothing for Nik! Nothing! And no matter what, Nik loves him so much! And I did everything for him! I treated him, taught him, cared about him! And what is the result? I was deceived, made fun of and driven away! Here it is, gratitude!” Kors cut off the vision angrily.

He wanted to finally stop endlessly thinking about Nik and exasperating himself with resentment, so he called Parky to report to him about the situation in their camp and somehow distract him.

Parky, with calm indifference, reported that everything was in perfect order, and, to the disappointment of Kors, didn’t give him the slightest reason to use his iron rod.

“Parky, you know that I not only hear thoughts, but I can see lives, and not only will I hear every bad word or thought about me, but I will see every offense. You know about it? Any secret act will become clear. You understand?” Kors asked him sternly.

“Yes, of course, Commander,” Parky replied, not at all frightened, “I have no bad thoughts, and I follow your orders.”

And Kors suddenly had an idea:

“Parky, can you see my demonic beast form?”

“Yes, Commander,” he replied casually.

And Kors barely concealed his surprise:

“Do you see my horns?!”

“Yes, Commander,” Parky shrugged.

“Oh! And that’s why you called me wooly in your mind at the beginning? Because I’m covered in fur?”

Parky laughed.

“No, no, Commander, not because of it. Forgive me.”

“Imagine my beast form now!”

“Yes, Commander!”

Kors tried to see his bestial image in Parky’s mind, but all he saw was a blur of darkness. It was a tall powerful silhouette with two long curved processes near the head. Even judging by those fuzzy shadows, the horns looked impressive.

Parky silently stood in front of him, waiting. Kors realized that he couldn’t really see anything and didn’t have the strength to see his daemonic form in this way.

“Enough,” he ordered, frustrated.

“Yes, Commander,” Parky couldn’t help but give a quick, barely perceptible smile. Apparently, he found it amusing to imagine his commander in a horned, furry form.

“But why are you so cheerful, you foolish wolf?” Kors managed to notice this smirk. “You always have fun!”

“IT BECOMES LIGHTER WITH A SMILE,” Parky said.

“What an idiot! That’s all, get out!”

Parky left, but Kors didn’t feel better – on the contrary, he began to feel even worse and even more insulting that his strength was so small, and he couldn’t squeeze anyone, and he saw the images of essences in fragments and indistinctly. And the Demon taught him nothing and gave him nothing! And it didn’t help! He taught Arel, but not him!

Kors had absolutely no idea what to do with the day. Previously, he always had business, important meetings, work, audiences in the palace. In the evenings he paid visits. Often he himself hosted receptions in his mansion. He didn’t have a minute of free time, he was constantly surrounded by associates, the right people and friends.

With Nik, he lost it all, involuntarily adjusting to his rhythm, and Nik most of the time injected, used various dope and slept. He didn’t do anything useful at all, and lying on the bed was his favorite pastime, he didn’t need anything. Kors, of course, at first was shocked by this lifestyle, but very soon he somehow got involved in it. He wanted to be with Nik here and now, he wasn’t drawn anywhere, didn’t need anything except to be with him. Kors recalled how earlier, attending a reception and communicating with the necessary and important people, he suddenly lost interest in what was happening and began to feel bored, realizing that at that moment, he would like something completely different – to be, for example, at one table with Varakh, sincerely drink and chat. But he stayed and spent time at this reception, because it was necessary, and Varakh was also busy with his own affairs. This has never happened when he was with Nik. If Kors was with him, he no longer wanted anything else, no other meetings and no other company. He didn’t want to go anywhere or talk to anyone. And even if he and Nik didn’t do anything, or did, in Kors’s opinion, complete nonsense, it was interesting and fun with him. And Kors always made a choice in favor of Nik, forgetting about all other things. And now Kors had no business, no friends, no Nik.

He is limited by circumstances, like the walls of a prison. There are no interesting cases, no friends, nothing happens, and he cannot influence it. It remains only to lie down, smoke, and in the end try to fall asleep, fall into a saving oblivion as soon as possible.

Kors “sees” himself from the outside. This is the past, and he is still quite young, here he may be a little over thirty, but how bad he looks! Sunken, cloudy, bruised eyes, a swollen face, hunched shoulders, a bottle is on the table, and already empty ones are lying on the floor. Kors drinks. And by the number of bottles, and his appearance, it is clear that he has been drinking for a long time and a lot. O-o-oh! He forgot this period of his life, erased it from his memory, like a bad dream. In vain he scolded Nik. Judging by the way he looks, his son had someone to inherit his craving for alcohol from. Kors sits at the table and looks gloomily at Kamiel Varakh, who is standing in front of him.

“We need to leave,” Varakh says excitedly, “you are dying here. Enough of this madness. The capital is waiting for you!”

“No,” Kors shakes his head heavily.

“How many letters from our friends have you received?”

“I didn’t count them.”

“And how many letters from the Black City did you just throw away without reading them?!”

Kors doesn’t answer, turns away and reaches for the bottle.

And, seeing this, Kamiel Varakh suddenly rushes to the glazed cabinet, standing at the side wall of the room. With a hand in a leather glove, he hits it, with some desperate anger breaking the glass door with his fist. There is a deafening rattle and ringing, but Kors doesn’t even turn his head. Inside the closet, the orders and medals of Kors gleam on the shelves. They are beautifully laid out on black velvet cushions and coasters. Varakh grabs one of the orders, and, approaching Kors, literally shoves it in his face:

“Look! Was it all in vain?”

Kors indifferently looks at his order “For Courage”, received by him for the liberation of the village of Meadow. He doesn’t care.

“Your military merit gives you… us a chance to prove ourselves in the capital!” Varakh shouts at him. “And your talent to find deserters and traitors to the motherland? How many secret enemies we have neutralized thanks to your instinct! Now what? All down the drain?! You’re pouring everything into an alcohol pit!”

Kors shakes his head sadly.

“Take it away,” he points to the order, “take it away.”

Varakh obeys, and, going up to the cabinet, through the broken glass carefully returns the order to the shelf, lays it on a velvet pillow:

“You must understand, new prospects will open up for you in the city,” he says a little more calmly, “Leonardo has noted your abilities, the way we cleared the liberated territories from traitors. He has personally sent me two letters asking me to influence you and bring you to the city. The safety of the king is above all else, and you have no right to drink away your talent! You must use it for the prosperity of our world! Benefit the state and the king! You took an oath and swore to serve faithfully for the good of the motherland!”

“I don’t have any talent!”

“The king’s security is waiting for us!” And you will be able to figure out unreliable people in his environment.

“No!”

(“Ah, it seems that stupid stubbornness was also transferred to Nik from me,” Kors thinks, watching this scene from the past. “What a fool I was!” Now Kors understands that Varakh was right, but then he didn’t want to listen to him).

“I have to find my child!” Says Kors. “Until I find him, I’m not going anywhere from here.”

“Oh Gods!” Varakh seems to be barely restraining himself from exploding. “How many years have passed! We searched everything, the whole district, every child in Komra was checked a thousand times!”

“I have to find him!”

“Vitor, wake up, it is quite possible that he was not born and died along with Inness, because you can’t be sure that the child was not inside her.”

“No, I can’t,” Kors agrees and sharply raises his dark eyes burning with madness at Varakh, “did I have to cut open her stomach and see?!” He grabs the glass and drinks it in one gulp, returning it to the table with a bang.

(“Yes, you idiot, you should have done it!” Kors mentally shouts to his young self. Now he would have done it, but then… then he was too sentimental and couldn’t desecrate the dead body of his beloved.)

“Vitor, if the child had survived, we would have found him already!” Varakh continues: “All these years we have been searching! It is quite possible that he was not born, what are you looking for?”

“Her belly was smaller…”

“Vitor! Stop it! You just want to believe that your child was born and survived! But think of your daughter, here is your real and living child! She had lost her mother, and now she will lose her father! She needs you!”

Kors is silent.

“Let’s get out of here, let’s go to the city. Vitor, don’t kill yourself with fruitless searches, think about Karina! Do you really want her to live her whole life behind seven locks in the basement?

“I care about her safety!”

“It’s time for her to get some education… after all, she will become a noble lady in the future.”

“I’m teaching her!”

“Martial arts?”

“She must be able to take care of herself!”

“Teaching her to fight with a sword is not exactly what is needed to raise a future woman. In the capital, she can become a friend of the princess, shine at court, find a profitable match! You don’t want a happy future for yourself, but you don’t want one for Karina either! You don’t think about her future, you break her fate! Is this what Inness wanted for your beloved girl? What would Inez say to you?

And Kors shudders.

“What will you say to Inness when you meet in the afterlife? How will you justify your selfishness? How will you explain that you broke the fate of your daughter?! You don’t really love Karina! And you don’t love Inness either! You don’t care about them!”

“I love them. And for them I am ready for anything!”

“Then let’s go to the city!”

Kors sits silently for a while and then finally quietly says:

“My life is broken, and I don’t care about any career, but you’re right, friend, I have to overcome myself, for the sake of Inness and… Karina.”

Varakh freezes in tension, never taking his eyes off his friend.

“Let’s go to the city,” Kors says.

And Varakh, in a happy gesture, folding his palms, raises his hands:

“Thank Gods!”

Dad! Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me!

Having inadvertently touched and knocked over the bottle, Kors awkwardly gets up from the table, staggers him:

“Let’s get out of here! To hell!”

“I will order the preparations to begin immediately!” Varakh hurriedly adds, as if afraid that Kors will suddenly change his mind.

“Let’s go,” Kors repeats. “The Black City has been waiting for us for a long time!”

Don’t leave…

Don’t leave…

Don’t leave…

Chapter 6

Kors woke from the haze of memories and sat up abruptly on his camp bed. Yes, he left then, succumbing to Varakh’s persuasions, he left for the Black City to start a new page in his life.

He had forgotten the past, and later didn’t match either the place or the time. He hadn’t even bothered to think that the white half-blood from Komra was just about as old as his lost child would have been at the moment. Kors had completely forgotten about everything, and, without looking at the boy, by an evil irony of fate, he identified his son in the trash. He branded him as a slave, dooming him to death, or at best to a humiliating existence as a living thing. And ten years later he made him his lover. Kors put his head in his hands. Varakh knew something, he said: “I didn’t want to upset you even more, you were already crushed by the loss of Inness!” It would be better if you upset me, stupid Varakh! Do you see what your silence has led to?

Dying Kamiel Varah, lying on the bed, looks at Kors from the black wells of sunken eye sockets, he looks, as if already from the other side …

“Vitor, I didn’t tell you then, I hid it… I didn’t want to hurt you even more, you were already crushed by the loss of Inness… Vitor, I don’t believe it, because I saw…”

“What did you see? Why didn’t you tell me?! Was it that terrible?”

Varakh caught up with the rider who was carrying the child to the witch. He caught up with him and…

“Vitor, I don't believe it, because I saw…”

What did you?

Kamiel Varakh was sure that Nik was not the son of Kors, and all the arguments that his former friend gave him couldn’t convince him. Because he saw with his own eyes something that left him in no doubt – Nik was not the son of Kors.

What did you see, Varakh? WHAT?

Kors remembered the morning at the inn near Prince Arel’s Estate, when Nik, Arel, and Lis had come for him. They needed the mercenaries that Kors brought with him, the victory of Lis depended on his soldiers.

And Kors at the beginning was glad that they came for him themselves. He was pleased, he longed to amuse his vanity and planned to make them long to persuade him. But things didn’t turn out the way he had hoped. Instead of begging and persuading, and preferably begging and kneeling down, Nik habitually impudent, as if he were under interrogation. Realizing perfectly well how much they need these soldiers and how important it is for him to agree with Kors, he didn’t ask for anything and behaved defiantly. Kors demanded that Nik take off his mask while talking to him, and when Nik, habitually snarling, nevertheless did so, Kors saw a “smile” painted on his face in black paint.

And how much it then pissed him off! It was Nik’s small revenge for Prince Arel, a reminder to Kors of his past. The shameful “smile” that went far beyond the contour of the lips, so bright on the white skin, still stood before Kors’ eyes, he had only to imagine it. At that moment, he barely restrained himself from hitting, throwing Nik out of the room. By some miracle he recollected himself and politely asked to wipe off the paint. Luckily, Nik stopped sneering and wiped off the dye. Kors remembered his pale, haggard face, “decorated” with tattoos and piercings. It was noticeable that Nik was seriously ill, his inflamed scar, roughly seized with iron staples, was frankly shocking.